


persephone, you reek of orchids

by iwillwalk500miles



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Fluff, Light Angst, No Dialogue, Pyrrha Nikos-centric, Romantic Gestures, i was yearning and i thought 'hey haven't done anything with these two in a while', the temptation to make this a tragedy almost overcame me ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillwalk500miles/pseuds/iwillwalk500miles
Summary: She gives him flowers on a spring day.It’s a quiet event, filled with an odd sort of awe that radiates from his blushing face and the nervous churning in her stomach that causes the fingers on her hand (the one not holding the flowers, instead positioned straight down to her side) to twitch and flutter. They press up against her leg, and she smiles at him hopefully, and privately thinks that the bouquet of flowers (the color of his hair) was not the prettiest thing in front of her.Pyrrha hadn’t quite known what had possessed her to give him the flowers, but she’d walked past the shop and seen them dancing in the window and couldn’t help but take pause. They reminded her of him, somehow. Maybe it was the way they’d called to her, so soft looking and dancing in the window.Or;Pyrrha gives Jaune flowers.
Relationships: Jaune Arc/Pyrrha Nikos
Comments: 21
Kudos: 39





	persephone, you reek of orchids

**Author's Note:**

> there was a post on tumblr that was like 'ships m/f ships but in an un-mistakably bisexual way' and i really vibed with that; also the title is from the song persephone by the tragic thrills

She gives him flowers on a spring day.

It’s a quiet event, filled with an odd sort of awe that radiates from his blushing face and the nervous churning in her stomach that causes the fingers on her hand (the one not holding the flowers, instead positioned straight down to her side) to twitch and flutter. They press up against her leg, and she smiles at him hopefully, and privately thinks that the bouquet of flowers (the color of his hair) was not the prettiest thing in front of her. 

Pyrrha hadn’t quite known what had possessed her to give him the flowers, but she’d walked past the shop and seen them dancing in the window and couldn’t help but take pause. They reminded her of him, somehow. Maybe it was the way they’d called to her, so soft looking and dancing in the window. 

Perhaps that was the reason why she’d decided to have them, perhaps it was because they’d whispered quiet words of love, so soft and subtle it was hardly there. Or perhaps it was simply their coloring; yellow swathed in white and and bunched into a small bouquet.

She wasn’t well versed in flower-speak, didn’t hold a dictionary of their meanings or their messages or their so very gently spoken words, but she’d seen the primrose and thought— _him, that reminds me of him, of the man that I am oh-so fond of._

Jaune stares at her for a moment, struck silent.

_I’m giving him flowers,_ Pyrrha has to remind herself, _perhaps he is simply surprised._

(How sad would that be? For him to be struck in such a silent surprise that for once he can not ramble his way out of this situation. It causes a curl of unrest to settle against her heart, and the desire to make sure that he knows he is cared for is an overwhelming one that she'd not been prepared to fight off at all. Not that she wanted to.)

Jaune shifts, hesitantly taking them from her, holding them in his hands and bowing his head a little. 

And she _knows_ that the motion is so that he can smell them but the action sends a rush of _something_ through her that makes her fingers tap against her leg just a little faster. As though he meant to worship, his head bows, soft tresses of blond hair falling forward and hanging around his head messily. The movement is one of thankfulness and hope and _something else_ —and she _wants_ suddenly, wants more than she thinks that she's ever wanted before.

Jaune smiles. 

(And suddenly, she’s sure that she wants a little more than that.)

She can see it, the awkward, too big, silly grin that frames his face; so at home on his lips. A rush of longing runs through her, the urge to press her hands to his cheeks, to brush her thumbs along the lines of his lips and run her fingers around the curve of his jaw.

There’s something satisfying about the look on his face, so obviously surprised by her gift, but happy nonetheless. It was an expression that she’d seen on him so very fleetingly, but to see it now—caused by _her_ , by her flowers—it is something that she is sure that she will never forget.

He presses the flowers close to his chest, holding them tightly to himself all the while being careful not to squish them, and thanks her wholeheartedly—his eyes sparkling with an emotion that she doesn't quite recognize.

She decides that it is not the last time she will bring home flowers to him.

The next time, she brings him yellow tulips. 

There is a brief moment where she wonders if perhaps that all the flowers she gives him will be yellow, the same sunshine color of his hair. There is a longer moment where she wonders if perhaps yellow tulips are appropriate. She’s a bit more thoughtful to him, this time, and though she is filled with an odd sort of hesitation she finds that a little research never harmed anyone.

The yellow tulip is a flower filled with odd history.

Once upon a time, they seemed to represent hopeless love; the jealousy that came with the kind of, _you will never be mine and that pains me to the extreme_ , type emotion. 

Luckily, she was able to find a definition that suited her far more than unrequited attraction.

_There’s sunshine in your smile,_ she thinks when he flashes her that grin again. _There it goes, light leaking through the gaps in your teeth and warmth seeping from every word you speak._

Just like before with the primroses, he cradles the tulips close to his chest and bows his head. It's just as much as a curious sight as it was before, the action filled with so much emotion that for a moment Pyrrha can't quite make sense of it all. She finds that there is a more sheepish quality to it than before, as though he still hadn’t quite expected something like this from her. It makes Pyrrha so endlessly sad, the way he sees himself; the means in which he attempts to prove his worth.

It is a thing of pure suffering, to see a light snuffed out by it's own hand, especially because it's _him_.

She loves him, she really does, she loves him like her heart beats; always and endlessly. 

Well, always and endlessly for her. Pyrrha’s heart will beat in her life forevermore—her breathing an uninterrupted phenomenon. She would not be around to see it stopped, so why bother believing in the silly notion of death? Why let it stop her from living and loving?

In those moments, like all the rest, she is immortal—but she knows that perhaps the brightness of his smile would be enough to reduce her to less than that.

She returns his expression, but hers is a great deal softer, a great deal more subdued. This act, flower-giving, this was her grand way to show her love. There would be no great romantic gestures, no obviously longing looks, there would be no sense of loudness in her actions. Pyrrha, for all her power, loved silently; so quiet and so easily looked over, the objects of her affections often caught between the screams of devotion that surrounded them. 

But Jaune is smiling at her, so there is no reason to be sad.

It’s a friendship flower, but there is something about the way that Jaune looks at her when she gives it to him that makes her neglect to point that out.

The next time she finds herself with flowers in hand, it is two types instead of one. Yellow they are, the color of his hair, and though she’d been sorely tempted to go with blue this one time (his eyes, the sky to his sunlight colored hair) but she’d seen them and once more thought, _I can see him, I am reminded only of him when I look upon these flowers; so beautiful and vibrant as they are, so soft and gentle._

She thinks that there is always a part of him that will be surprised when she surprises him, flowers in hand and a smile on her face. She doesn’t mind, because though she desperately wishes that he’d had enough affection to be unsurprised by random acts of love, the astonishment on his face when paired with his silly smile is a surprisingly charming sight to fall in love with.

She’s closer to him than before, they stand with perhaps a foot between them, and Pyrrha gives him the bouquet.

It's a warm thing, being near him. It flutters up in her rib-cage, pressing butterfly kisses to her lungs as they stutter and shake, nerves dancing in her stomach and banging against her bones. She wants to hold his hand, to press her cheek against his as she holds him tight in her arms. (As he holds her back tighter in his own.)

Jaune brushes his thumb along the stem of the orchids, one of his other fingers lightly brushing against the softness of a daisy’s petals, and once more bows his head. It’s a much longer event than before, every movement he makes gentle and slow; his eyes clenched tightly shut as an uncontrollable smile splits open his face. He’s blushing now, so obviously flustered as he hesitantly brings himself to look up at her. 

Pyrrha decides that she rather likes the look on his face when he’s embarrassed, she decides that she wouldn’t mind spending every moment trying to get him to do it all over again. 

She sighs his name out fondly after he thanks her, and somehow finds the courage to reach out and squeeze his hand. She wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to thank her for something as simple as this, she wants to tell him that she loves him, that she loves him so much that sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

But she doesn’t, because Pyrrha Nikos loves silently, and Jaune Arc has always had a bit of trouble hearing her over the noise.

She doesn’t get the chance to give him another flower, and instead finds herself on the receiving end of one. Pyrrha stares at him, blinking for a moment as she takes him in. 

He stands in front of her, and once again his head is bowed, but instead of holding a flower close he gestures it out; extending past him as his hand shakes with what could only be described as nervousness. His other hand is pushed tightly to his side, his arm stiff. He holds in his fingers (positioned so carefully as to not crush it) a single long-stemmed, bright red rose. 

_It reminded me of your hair._ He mumbles to the floor, and the only thing she knows in that moment is that she loves him.

Pyrrha wonders for a moment if this was a similar sight to what she had done for him, so nervously presenting him with a flower she thought reminded her of him. But then she also decides that she wasn’t so obviously nervous about it, and that she should really hurry up and make it a little easier for him before he faints from nerves.

(But also an almost mean part of her wants to make him sweat. Decisions.)

She decides to take the flower from him carefully, saddling up close and pressing her other hand to his shoulder, imploring him to look up at her. He doesn’t at first, and she doesn’t push him—even though she rather wants to. Instead, Pyrrha sighs, keeping her hand to his shoulder as she lifts the rose to her nose to smell. 

She can’t keep the smile from her face, not after that.

Privately, she thinks that the rose doesn’t quite suit her, that she is more fire and flame than what he has presented to her. Privately, she wonders if Jaune had made a mistake—but then he looks up at her, his eyes so soft and kind, and he smiles at her smile. Something in her expression must shift, because then he is blinking owlishly back at her, as though something odd had finally been brought to his attention.

He looks at her then, _really_ looks at her. It isn't like he's seeing her for the first time, but instead as though he'd found what he'd always been looking for, so obvious now that he'd bothered to look.

_Ah._ She thinks, perhaps she had been too obvious. She wonders if it'll change anything between them, she doesn't know if she wants change—not with the possibility of where it may go.

_I love you,_ he says to her after a moment of silent staring—a quiet admission. _I hope you love me._

_Always_. Is her response, and she could go on an endless speech of how true it was, how for her as long as her shaky heart hammered in her chest it would never be a lie, but Jaune was smiling at her, and for now there was no reason to go on a tirade of love.

_You’re soft with me,_ He murmurs. _You’re so warm I don’t know what to do sometimes, and I am so afraid that I’ll fan the wrong flames._

She slides her arm up his shoulder so that she was cupping his cheek, and looks at him with such a look of absolute adoration that she’s sure she sees him have to take a second look. _It’s you,_ she whispers back, _even if you make a mistake it’ll always be you._

And when they kiss, Pyrrha knows that her words would forever remain true.

**Author's Note:**

> if i had the time to write a greek god au for them pyrrha would be hades and jaune would be persephone, i don't make the rules except i do


End file.
